Not Ready to Die
by ThaliaGrace318
Summary: Ash Tyler survived as a prisoner of war because he caught the interest of the Klingon Captain L'Rell. What did he go through in order to survive? (Just touching a bit on what the human Ash Tyler went through while L'Rell's prisoner)
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** This takes place between episodes 4 and 5 with Tyler in the Klingon prison. They showed us very little of his interaction with L'Rell, only hinting at what happened to him. This had an enormous impact on the character Ash Tyler (before it was revealed to him and us that he was Voq) so I thought I'd write a little about it to explore what he'd gone through from the Tyler personality's perspective.

Please review and let me know what you think, and if you have any suggestions for additional scenes :)

* * *

 **Not Ready to Die**

In his cell he went to sleep praying that he would not be taken to the captain's quarters. But every other night at least, he was pulled from the cell and forced down that dark corridor. Each time, he gave in without any kind of fight; each time he forced his mind to go back to the lake of his childhood, to soft rain showers, to sunlight glistening on the water, the smell of pine trees on the breeze – anything to help him get through it, to forget her smell, her sharp hands, the sounds she made so alien to him.

He could hear her breathing now, the soft rumbling, almost a purr, that she made in her sleep. It was becoming a disturbingly familiar sound. Lying on his side, he watched the stars shoot past through the window, their light faintly illuminating the darkened room. He was exhausted, but he didn't sleep. He could never sleep here, not really.

It wasn't often he stayed in her bed – most often, he was put back in his cell once she was finished with him – and though the bed was warm and softer than the floor of a cell, he dreaded the times when she allowed him to stay. That added intimacy of sleeping beside her, sometimes skin to skin, her ridged skin softer than he'd expected, her hands still on him, his on her, it was almost more than he could bare. He was thankful this time they were not touching; she'd shifted over in her sleep, leaving a little space between them.

He edged over to the side of the bed, moving slowly, carefully so as not to disturb her. He set his feet on the floor and dropped his head into his hands. The sheet, made of a tough yet thin and silken material that he'd never seen anywhere else, covered him. His uniform, the only clothing he had, was on the floor. He didn't reach for it, however much he wanted to. Though he knew better than to count on it being over for the entire night, he hoped she wouldn't wake again. It had already been a long night. He didn't think he had it in him to take any more of her…affection.

That perverse affection, for lack of a better word, was the only reason he was still breathing. For reasons he didn't know, his captor and torturer had taken a liking to him that seemed to border on obsession. And now she tormented him in a different way. And he encouraged it. Encourage it because it was the only thing keeping him alive, his only way out from the other horrors of this place.

And as much as he hated her, he couldn't help the small seed of gratitude that he felt, as if she'd saved him; the faint stirrings of affection that wormed their way past his disgust and hate; the feeling of arousal from any touch that was not intended to cause pain (even though it sometimes did). Feelings that he didn't want, that had a disjointed feel as if they weren't really coming from him. He knew it was a result of his captivity – survival mode, his mind and body trying to get through the ordeal with as little pain as possible, with any sensation that was not pain being construed as pleasure after the torture he'd suffered – not any real genuine feeling, but try as he might he couldn't erase it. So instead, he stomped it down and locked it in a box.

Her bizarre attachment to him did not mean that he escaped the beatings that the guards meted out completely, that was too much to hope for, but he was not returned to their torture rooms. No, instead this, the captain's quarters, was his own personal torture chamber.

But he could survive her in this room.

He could not survive another round with her in that other room where he had seen other Starfleet Officers in pieces, where he was thankful when they stopped screaming because it meant they were dead. Or at least he hoped they were, that their pain was over. He swallowed the bile that the guilt at wishing death for his fellow officers raised in his throat.

Anytime he cringed at what he had to trade to escape that same fate, he remembered the pain, the agony, the screaming – His own.

There were times when he didn't know which was worse, when he didn't think he could take any more; when he thought it might be better to give up, to just let them kill him. He could say no to her – then she would stop with her…special treatment…and put him back with the other prisoners. After what he'd already been through, he didn't think it would take long for him to die.

But he didn't want to die.

She might kill him outright if he angered her. Or…she might not let him die. She might not let him say no. He'd never said no to her before. He wasn't sure what she would do if he didn't give in to her. He didn't know what to make of her inexplicable obsession; why she wanted him, a human, at all. The small kindnesses, like the few times she gave him extra food before returning him to the cell. The more tender touches that he forced himself not to flinch away from. The words she said in her own language when she had him in her bed, words he couldn't understand but which sounded like endearments…

He didn't know what made her fixate on him when she could just as easily find another human pet to play with. Internally he cringed again, guilty at wishing his fate on someone else. There were no good options here. His existence was bleak with no light at the end of the tunnel. The only choice he had (and he used the term loosely) was which method of torment he was to suffer through. He chose the one that allowed him to see another day; the one that allowed him to escape the pain…for the most part.

Her breathing changed and he squeezed his eyes shut, hoping she would just go back to sleep. Futile hope. Her hand landed on his shoulder, the pointed tips of her fingers prickling his bare skin, moving down his chest…and then lower. Her tongue lapped up the side of his neck. He suppressed a shudder, schooled his expression to hide what he felt, and turned to face her. He didn't resist, feeling an equal measure of fear and unwanted anticipation, as she pushed him back onto the bed. And when she got on top of him, he gave her what she wanted. He always did.

He wasn't ready to die.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** This chapter shows a progression of what happened to Tyler in prison. Chapter one would fall somewhere in the middle. Chapter three will show his escape and what happens when he is on board the _Discovery_. The told us that he had nightmares - I want to go deeper into that and other elements of PTSD he may have suffered.

* * *

 **CHAPTER 2**

 _FIRST ENCOUNTER WITH L'RELL_

He sat huddled on the floor, his mind unfocused, in a daze, perhaps in an effort to protect itself from the grim and undeniable truth that he was going to die in here. He had no measure of how much time had passed – not for the latest session in their torture room, or even for how long he'd been imprisoned – it was all a jumbled indeterminable stretch of pain. He hurt, inside and out as if his organs had been taken out and put back in – at least he hoped they were all where they should be. There was nothing more they could pry from him; he had no secrets, knew nothing of particular interest that would make him valuable as a prisoner, no more so than any other officer of his rank. His continued torture seemed to have no other purpose that to inflict pain.

The sound of a door opening brought him partly out of his daze; the sight of the enemy captain, who also served as his torturer, shook him out of it completely. He used the wall to push himself up, trying to hide the pain he was in, how weak he felt. She was watching him again, studying him with that unreadable look on her face. He felt hot and cold at the same time and a tendril of fear snaked down his spine as she came towards him and reached out her hand. Her fingers traced the side of his face, almost consolingly.

She'd done this before, these small unexpected and unexplained gestures. Each time she'd reached for him, he'd cringed. He hated showing fear, but his body was constantly wracked with pain, pain wrought by her hands. Yet the same hands that had caused him such agony caressed him gently after the fact – a gesture he would have found soothing had it come from one of his own kind – and the way she looked at him… Nothing made sense anymore, and given how out of it he was, maybe he was starting to hallucinate. But the way she touched him…there was a possessiveness to her touch, like she had the right to, like he belonged to her. And the way he'd seen her looking at him before, the way she was looking at him now… In that look, he saw what might be a way out, if he could bring himself to take it.

He was a prisoner of war. His training told him to resist and escape if possible. But resisting her attentions wasn't going to get him anywhere and escaping from a ship patrolling deep in enemy space didn't seem likely. Still, he refused to give up hope of somehow getting home – that fragile hope was all that had sustained him so far – and he had to do everything he could to increase his chances. If all he managed to do was stay alive, it would at least be something.

So this time as she laid her hand on him, he didn't cringe away. He leaned into it. She stared at his unexpected reaction. He stared back, not in defiance, but in an effort not to betray fear. Pride was all he had left. He was determined to hide his fear, not only for the sake of his pride, but also because it would do nothing to endear him to her. Her kind responded to strength.

Suddenly, as if in response to the unspoken challenge, invitation, or plea – he wasn't sure which – she lashed out and took hold of his arm. His every instinct screamed at him to pull away, to fight, but with monumental effort he suppressed it. He wasn't in any condition to fight – he was barely on his feet – and lashing out at her would gain him nothing but more pain. Not wanting to be dragged along, he resisted the urge to struggle and instead picked up his feet to trail along with his captor as she led him out of the room.

They left the chamber and strode down a corridor. He felt a small relief when she took a different direction than what led to her torture room, though that relief was muted by apprehension of where she was taking him. From his cell, he could always hear the screaming and crying from other prisoners trapped in their own hells. As the sound of them fell away, he almost missed it, the silence reinforcing that he was entirely alone here. Alone with her.

The prison ship held a dark and cold atmosphere, far removed from the brightly lit corridors of a Federation Starship. The corridors were winding with doors and hallways branching off at irregular intervals. The few Klingons they passed glanced briefly at him, even as they bowed their heads in quick obeisance of their captain. Many corridors and one lift ride later, the captain led him through a door sealed with a bio-print scanner that she pressed her hand to, to gain entrance into what had to be her personal quarters. He only had a second to digest this fact before he was pulled past the first room and into the second one. She released him, and his feet stopped suddenly of their own accord when he realized they'd entered a bedroom dominated by a large, firm-looking mattress on a platform in the middle of the floor.

He stared at the bed until a soft growl snapped his attention back to her. He'd heard Klingons growl before – an aggressive, primitive sound – but this was different, softer…sensual. Their species were not so different that one couldn't interpret the unspoken communication.

She wanted to mate.

From the moment he recognized that look in her eyes for what it was, he knew what he would have to do to forestall his own death, to not be sent back to that room with their instruments of torture. Willing his hands not to shake, he unzipped and pulled off the jacket of his uniform. As the rest followed, her eyes raked over him almost like a physical touch he could feel, abrasive against his skin, a look of hunger and want. Despite the coldness around him, sweat trickled down his back.

She took a step closer and lifted her hand to touch his face again, that possessiveness more pronounced now as her hand caressed his neck and moved down to his chest. The foreign texture of her skin sent a tremor through his body – a recoil against the unfamiliar. He stood helplessly and let her hands move over his skin proprietarily as she walked around him as though she was inspecting a purchase to make sure she got her money's worth. Her touch was like a brand marking him. He wasn't bought, but in this moment, he was owned.

His eyes flickered for an instant to the door, but of course there was nowhere to go. The instinct to run or fight against what was about to happen was nearly overpowering. In good health he could win a fight against her kind, but now he was beaten down, hurting and starving. And even if he could fight, then what? Be captured by her guards? Be put to slow, agonizing death for attacking their captain. He had no way off the prison ship. No way out of this room – she'd sealed the door after they entered. The only way he could fight to stay alive was to defy his every instinct…and not fight. To submit.

He did not resist when she led him to the bed and pushed him onto his back before removing her own clothes. He closed his eyes as she straddled him, her weight pressing him into the mattress, the heat of her body surrounding him as she got on top of him. All he could do was lie there beneath her and let her take from him whatever she wanted. As she claimed him, he tried to imagine himself anywhere but there. He was aware but also numb, disconnected as though separated from his body as he escaped into his own mind: He was home, lying by the shore of the lake he grew up next to. Her warm breath was replaced by the summer breeze; the rhythm of her movements replaced by the push and pull of the water…

This was the price to pay for the chance, however slim, of seeing that shore again.

* * *

 _SECOND ENCOUNTER_

The day in the cell was excruciatingly long – not that there was any way to tell time in the locked space, but to his mind, the day stretched infinitely. He'd been deposited back in his cell when she was finished with him, and the minute he was alone, trembling took over his body, his legs gave out, and he slid to the floor with his back against a wall and tried to hold himself together. He felt broken, diminished, damaged in a way that the physical torture had not been able to inflict. For the first time in months, he'd let tears fall freely without worrying about the consequences before he passed out, his mind mercifully going blank.

When he woke up his mind was unmercifully clear. He remembered everything – the way her hands traced over his skin in a twisted parody of a lover's touch. His stomach twisted with nausea and he felt faint, sickened and disgusted. His head swam and his stomach clenched. It didn't help that he'd been half starved since his capture – prisoners were given just barely enough food to keep them alive. After a while, he managed to pull himself together, at last enough to eat the meager scraps of food that were left for him and to try to get some rest.

While it had been a relief at first to be ignored and given the day to heal and sleep, now his nerves ramped up in dread of the captain's eventual return…or of her absence. There was no question in his mind that her abuse of him would continue. The only question was which method of abuse. Which room would he be taken to: The torture room? Or the captain's quarters? If now that she'd had him once, was she over her curiosity, the novelty of it? If so, he knew he wouldn't last much longer here.

The waiting ended with the sudden opening of the cell door. He stood, though he swayed from pain and hunger. As she entered, the urge to duck his head and back away was strong; what she'd done to him, how she used him, weighed so heavily he wasn't sure he had the strength to look her in the eye. But his pride proved stronger; he lifted his eyes to meet hers. Her lips curved in a slight smile. They both knew that he was at her mercy. Even so – perhaps especially so – she seemed to like that he stood before her, her prisoner, vulnerable to her in every way, and yet he did not cower. She looks pleased in a way that unnerved him. And he could see the answer in her eyes: Yes, she still wanted him. Last night had only peaked her appetite. That was both a dread and a relief. Dread that the most intimate of violations would be repeated; relief that as long as she wanted him she would keep him alive and out of their torture room, and that was the only card he had to play.

So again, he followed without a fight as she led him to her quarters. She moved with an eagerness that frightened him and no sooner had the door to her bedchamber closed behind him than she started to remove her uniform.

"Take off your clothes," she commanded.

He started at the brisk command, his fingers already complying. His uniform was all he had; fearful that she would tear it off him if he made her wait, he hurriedly removed it. Her eyes never left him. Her gaze sliding up and down his body brought the memories of last night that he'd been trying not to look at rushing to his head, and he fought to keep down what little he'd eaten. She stalked toward him like a hungry predator stalking its prey and he knew that he could neither fight nor flee. She let out a low growl and pushed him roughly back on to the bed. She was immediately on top of him, her hands running from his shoulders down his torso. His muscles jumped at the touch of her sharp tipped fingers as they trailed threateningly across his skin. He squeezed his eyes shut, fearing that she would draw blood.

Again, he let her do what she wanted with him. He'd been right when she though that the first time had only heightened her interest – that first time had been mild compared to this. His hands clenched the sheets as he panted in time with her vigorous movements and tried to swallow every whimper, suppress every groan, not always successfully.

"Open your eyes," she ordered, preventing him from taking refuge in his own mind as he had before. Still, he tried to force his mind to think of other things, to go to another place, but that was impossible while her eyes remained locked on his – predator and prey, the conqueror and the conquered – and she didn't allow him to look away. They eye contact was only broken when she dipped her head lower, and he gasped and tensed as she bit his shoulder hard enough to draw a faint trace of blood.

She threw her head back, her back arching, as she finished with a howl of inhuman pleasure, her hand wrapped around his throat in a way that said 'this was hers'. In the aftermath she ran her hands down his chest one more time before she rolled off of him and left the bed, and he had a moment to himself. His hand reached up to where a perfect imprint of her teeth marked him. He panted into the silence as the realization echoed in his head that he no longer belonged to himself; he was her prisoner, and in some ways now also her slave.

He'd traded his body to save his life. That was the Devil's deal he made to survive.

His stomach cramped in response to the smell of food. He opened his eyes and slowly sat up when he saw that she brought a container of water and a plate of something unfamiliar. He didn't know what it was and he wasn't sure he wanted to. At this point, anything was good enough. He needed to get his strength back if he had any hope of surviving long enough to escape.

The water he gulped down eagerly. The cool liquid felt amazing on his parched lips and tongue; he couldn't remember the last time water tasted so good. He drank until the container was empty. He ate what she put in front of him, not tasting any of it. Despite wanting to gulp down the food, he ate slowly, partly because he knew that too much of anything after being near starved would only make him sick, and also to stall whatever would happen next.

She watched him eat while he tried not to look at her. He hoped that he would be returned to his cell now, but her fixed attention told him she wasn't finished with him yet.

He had a moment to ponder his captor's motives. Why would she want a human? And why him? He could think of no reason why he would stand out from the others being held here. Was it just another way for her to subjugate someone she saw as beneath her? Was she using him as a pleasant (for her) distraction from the rigor of her position? Maybe. But why this… kindness? This show of what seemed to be genuine affection for him? He didn't understand it. And he didn't need to. That fact was it kept him alive and in less pain than he'd had before, physically at least.

Mentally, felt like he was holding on by a thread.

For the first time since his nightmare began he was offered some comfort; he was fed, he was warm and lying on something soft. And he wanted to close his eyes and huddle in his misery, but he was already in as vulnerable a position as he could be without adding to it.

Apparently tired of waiting, she took the tray of food from him. Reaching for him, she ran her hands over his body, watching his reaction. He worked to keep his breathing even, pretending he didn't feel what he couldn't help but feel as her hand moved lower. She'd allowed him food and drink, apparently from her own stores, and now it appeared he would have to pay for it; she'd satisfied his hunger, now he had to satisfy hers. He could see both lust and tenderness in her face. She pressed against him, guiding him onto his back.

He felt a bit stronger now that he'd had more to eat than scraps, and he had to remind himself again that fighting would gain him nothing. Still he groaned out his frustration and discomfort as with that purring/growl she made, she mounted him again. As opposed to her previous aggressive claiming, she was now almost gentle in her slowness, drawing it out…and he found himself moving with her, arching into her. His mind was exhausted and all he could do was give in to the sensations she inflicted on him. Her hands stroked and petted him, while she whispered strange words in her own language, words that meant nothing to him except when she said his name, calling him 'sweet Tyler'.

* * *

 _PROGRESSION_

It was funny how standards and priorities could change; amazing what people would do to keep breathing just one more day. Even in a situation where death might be preferable, fear of death still prevailed. And he'd decided he wasn't ready to die. He'd been given a reprieve and his stay of execution was carried out in her bed. That is why every time she came for him, he trailed docilely behind her to her quarters. He could withstand the dehumanizing life as this alien's pet if it meant survival. If he held on long enough, there might be a way to get back home. Maybe he was fooling himself with pointless hope, but that hope was all he had to cling to, so cling to it he did. For now, he would give her what she wanted and give her no reason to hurt.

What she wanted was him – more of him, more from him. The she-creature was insatiable. His time with her stretched longer with each encounter; once was never enough, and if he thought he couldn't go again, she had ways of persuading him otherwise. When he was made to stay with her throughout the night, he didn't so much fall asleep captive in his torturer's arms as pass out. He got little rest however.

Like tonight, he came awake with a jolt as she settled on top of him. Having been relaxed and aroused in his sleep, he was unguarded against the pleasure she forced on him. They both breathed harshly, and while he wanted to close his eyes, he found he couldn't. There was something mesmerizing about the way she looked at him, staring down at him. And just for a moment he felt a flash of…familiarity. Staring into her eyes he felt possessed by her, like she was taking more than just his body, laying claim to something deep and dormant within him. Something that wanted to respond to her.

A growl of his own escaped him as he sat up and pulled her against him, his arms circling her. His hands traced over the natural patterns made by the ridges in her skin as he moved with her, both of them eager for completion. After all the pain and horror, his body reacted with pleasure without his mind's permission, and in those moments, he didn't care where he was or who he was with. He wasn't sure how he felt about taking pleasure in this forced coupling. While part of him hated it, and hated himself for feeling it, the other part was always just glad the torture had ended. There was an allure to feeling something – anything – other than the fear and pain that had been his constant companions in the months since his capture. Anytime he felt that disconnected affection for her, he counted it as simple relief that he'd been taken from the sadistic torture room. He hissed as her hands clawed at his back as they went over the edge together.

He slowly lowered himself back onto the bed and she followed, still holding him close. He lay there in her arms, seeking solace from the very person he needed salvation from. He could feel her flush against him, could smell the scent of her, something he knew would be burned into his brain forever – something he had no word for other than being uniquely _her_.

"Very good," she said softly, so close their breath mingled between them. There was no space between them, no part of them that wasn't touching. She stared down at him with a bright gleam shining behind her blue eyes. It was too intimate, too much as if they were actually lovers. He looked away.

"No!" came the guttural command. "Look at me. Look at me!" she demanded. Her accent was thicker as she took less care to speak in understandable English. Her hand was gentle as she brushed his hair out of his face. Tears leaked from the outer corners of his eyes and ran down his temples. She appeared to like it; she licked the wet trails on his face. Her tongue followed where her hands touched as she moved slowly down his body. His hands clenched the sheet beneath him as he tried not to squirm – or to scream – while she explored him. _All_ of him.

The time he spent with her while he lay in her embrace her hands often roamed his body as if she were mapping him, meticulously learning every inch of him. The touch disturbed him, yet also soothed in its non-painful intention; and also aroused, which he didn't fight as it made it easier to get through the night. There didn't seem to be an end to her curiosity, and her use of her senses; she seemed to enjoy not just touching him but sniffing and tasting him as well. Her touch was like a brand that with every passing day seared deeper and deeper into his soul where he would never be able to root her out.

He sometimes worried that he was being brainwashed, conditioned to respond to her, depend on her. This female was a master of mind games, though he couldn't see what advantage she could gain from this one. She seemed to want him to enjoy her attentions and was willing to force pleasure on him; she wanted him not just to submit to it, but to enjoy it, to let his body respond, to be grateful for her touch and ultimately to want more. She wanted his submission, but at the same time she seemed to enjoy that he had his own mind, that he was still an independent being and not just a broken thing to be used. He supposed he should be grateful that she didn't want him broken since it would not take much more pressure for him to break.

She came to lie beside him again, except this time she pulled him on top of her. He knew what she wanted; these bodily explorations were not one sided. He made his way down her body, slowly exploring her with his hand and mouth as she had done to him, her hand resting on his hair as if to encourage him. By now, he knew what she liked; night after night spent with her, his hands came to know her as hers knew him. He didn't want her touch, and he certainly did not want to touch her in that way, but that was not an option. What he wanted had no relevance; he did his best not to think, but to simply act.

What he had to do to survive…He did not know that later he would be able to live with it, but he could _survive_ it. And he knew for sure that he could not survive a return to the pain he'd endured strapped down to their table, unable to do anything but scream. So, he would survive her here in this room, and then if ever he escaped, he would just have to learn to live with it. She'd inflicted pain and then used that pain as leverage to dominate him. He allowed his body to give in, but his mind never forgot that she was his captor, not his lover. And he would break free of her…somehow.

* * *

 _THE NIGHT BEFORE ESCAPE_

As tired as he was, he couldn't rest because she kept touching him. That was not unusual – in this room it was rare that she did not have her hands on him in some way – but tonight he could tell that something bothered her. And it disturbed him that he'd learned to read her well enough to know that.

He was lying on his back and could feel the heat of her along his side. She had one hand on his chest, slightly rough, warm against bare skin, strong though she used none of that strength now. She didn't need strength to keep him where she wanted him. He wasn't fighting her. He was floating, his mind gone to another place and time as he so often tried to do, to mentally escape his prison, if only for a few minutes. He was brought back to the present by the tugging on his hair as her long fingers combed through it in a habit she'd picked up. Her kind didn't have hair; it was an oddity to her, a curiosity. Her harsh breath wafted over his head while her arm circled his chest. Not restraining – he could break her hold if he wanted to. He didn't, though the closeness made him want to squirm out of his own skin. In her arms he was trapped more securely than if he'd been in chains.

By night, he lay with the enemy.

But by day, his mind worked on a means of escape, pulling together any and every detail he'd gathered about the workings of the prison ship and its personnel…anything that might at some point be useful. Their technology was not too far removed from what he was familiar with, like the bio-scanners that they used on the doors. He'd seen how the mechanisms on their plasma guns worked when they'd executed another prisoner who'd tried to fight them. Even through the guards' beatings, he cataloged how they fought and how he could counter it. Their language he couldn't make sense of; he couldn't even begin to try to interpret it. Except the words that she sometimes spoke to him in the midst of their time together – and in that case he thought he was better off not knowing.

He knew any plans of escape might be futile without help, but it kept his mind busy which was something he desperately needed. He tried not to allow the other thoughts always crowding his mind to overwhelm him, not to spend his days in the cell reliving the past night in her bed. But in the darkest moments, his mind couldn't help but look to the future and ask the question he didn't want to consider: If there was no escape…what then?

He'd survived longer than any other prisoner he'd seen in this place. On this ship, prisoners normally didn't last more than a few months, some only weeks, wasted away from pain, hunger and horror, beaten to death by guards. Those taken to the enemy homeworld were put to death – slow public executions meant to spread terror – or else enslaved. Would this be his enslavement? Unless he found a way out, this was his life now, at least until she grew tired of him. Keeping her interest was his only means of survival; his worth was now measured by how much she enjoyed him. When she grew bored of him, his value expired.

Both fortunately and disparagingly, she showed no sign of losing interest.

Since the day at the Binary Stars when this unending nightmare started, his world had been turned upside down and for the life of him, he couldn't see how he was ever going to right it again. As hopeless as it seemed, there had to be a way to escape, but chasing that hope in a vicious circle was the thought that even if he escaped, all that had happened to him, the torture, the brutality…these moments spent in the arms of the enemy…it would all stay with him. From that first night when he'd been recovering from the last torture session she'd inflicted on him and all she'd wanted was for him to lie there and take it. Then the more he'd recovered, the more she wanted. He wasn't sure which was worse: being submissive to her, a thing for her to enjoy; when she wanted him to be the aggressor, to be an active part of his own violation; or when she was gentler, tender, as if they were truly lovers. That one was a special kind of torture, a perversion of what such intimate acts should be.

No matter the scenario, afterward he always tried to empty his mind of all of it – what she did to him, what she forced him to do, the sounds she made in her pleasure, the feel of her skin on his, the smell of that bed, of the two of them together… When that seemed impossible, he filled his mind with thoughts of escape. The seed of a plan had been formulating in his mind for a while now. Problem was, he couldn't do it alone. And in here, he was very much alone.

Figuratively speaking.

She shifted beside him and a simple touch told him what she wanted. He rolled over so that they faced each other. After all he'd already been through, he thought he was prepared for anything. He'd steeled himself to endure whatever attentions she could devise. But what she did then shocked him. Her hand in his hair moved to the back of his head pulling him closer and she kissed him.

A shock ran through him, and it was only by habit that he resisted pulling away from her, from the wet heat of her invading tongue, and the surprising softness of her lips. He'd had sex with her every way he knew how, and several that he didn't; done things with her that he didn't even have words for. They'd touched and tasted nearly every inch of each other. But she had never kissed him.

After all of her advances that he'd been forced to endure, his body was becoming conditioned to respond to her desire. He felt her tongue slide against his own, wet, warm, aggressive…He kissed back, answering the demands of that possessive mouth. A purr of satisfaction rose in the back of her throat; he felt it vibrate through his chest.

Finally, she pulled away, placing her hand on his chest. He tensed as her sharp nails flexed, pricking the skin over where his heart beat a staccato rhythm as if giving her a clearer target. He did not know why she chose him in the first place, or if her strange fascination could on a whim come to a sudden violent end. But after a moment, she smoothed her hand out over his chest.

He thought she would want him again, but instead she simple lay her head down on the bed beside him. This night she wanted him close, nothing more. Why, he didn't know, and he wasn't about to ask. Her petting continued, gentler this time, while his mind whirled, all thoughts of sleep gone.

His mind was all he had that was still his. He had to escape before he lost that too, before his mind gave in completely, before he gave in to the reality of being her possession. He closed his eyes, trying again to will his mind to another place – a place where he found himself out of the cage of her embrace, out of her bed, out of this room, off this ship.

* * *

In the morning – or what passed for morning – after he was thrown back into his cell, he crawled into a corner and promptly passed out, his mind as usual trying to block out the previous night, having been compelled to spend the entire night in her arms.

He woke some time later to find another prisoner in the cell. The man wore a clean uniform, still crisp despite signs of a struggle and traces of blood that looked to have dripped from a fresh gash on his face. He wore a captain's badge.

Maybe not so alone after all…


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

 _"_ _Did you really think you could leave me…"_

 _Her voice, though softly spoken, echoes loudly in his ear. He isn't sure if he is in her quarters or back in her torture room…or both…or neither… All he knows is that he is held down, immobilized by bonds he can't see. She's never restrained him before, not in her bed; she's never needed to._

 _But now he has defied her. He tried to get away, tried to escape from her. And she will make him pay for it. She will punish him for the attempt in ways that will make him beg for death, but rather than kill him she will keep him and continue to take her pleasure from him._

 _Her torture room: pain ripping through him, unfamiliar implements burning through him, splitting bone, carving flesh. He begs her for the pain to stop, promises to give her what she wants, to do whatever she wants. He begs her to keep him, begs her to say that he is hers…_

 _…_ _And then he is in her quarters, though he does not remember moving or being moved. Sharp nails clawing at his back while teeth scrape against his skin teasingly before biting down hard. He clenches his teeth trying not to scream, knowing it will only excite her. But he does as he promised, he gives her what she wants. Even when she bites and scratches and hurts, he knows that in this room she will not kill him._

 _And on and on it goes. He whimpers while she rides him, screams while she cuts into him, alternating between pain and pleasure. That is, his pain and her pleasure, the two one and the same._

 _And he clings to her because there is nothing left. There is nothing else. He tried to escape but there is no escape. There is only her._

 _"…_ _After all we've been through."_

 _xxx_

Ash Tyler shot up in his bed. Tangled in his sheets, he struggled trying to fight off the hands he felt on him. His heart was hammering and a cold sweat coated his skin. It took a few minutes to assure himself that he was safe, that his escape from that hell had not been a dream and that the nightmare images that his subconscious dredged up were just that – nightmares. Just dreams, memories to be buried, nothing more.

Yet there was more truth to the nightmare than he wanted to acknowledge.

He knew that if escape had failed, she would've exacted retribution for the attempt. He knew the agony that she could inflict. And he knew that he would have begged to make it stop, done anything to make it stop.

He already had.

The worst part about these nightmares wasn't the pain or the fear, though there was certainly an overabundance of both. The worst part was that…it wasn't all bad. The worst part was the pleasure; when his pain had not been needed for her pleasure, it was a relief to disengage his mind, to stop thinking, to forget where he was, who he was with. The release.

The beatings, starvation, isolation, her blades cutting into him, and the contrast of her seemingly gentle touch afterward, repeated until his will had broken and he had accepted her touch rather than endure the consequences. He was dead before L'Rell decided she wanted to keep him. For some strange reason he mattered to her, and mattering to her was all that mattered. He'd feared her. But more than that, he'd feared losing her affection for that would surely mean a return to pain. Anytime his hatred of her had surged up, he'd suppressed it under numb acceptance. He had not given up, not accepted that this was his fate – even in his darkest moments, he'd never given up hope of somehow escaping – but until opportunity presented itself, he'd resigned himself to his reality, the reality of being _Hers_.

Opportunity had presented itself in the form of Gabriel Lorca. Tyler had woken up to another day in hell to find a new prisoner in his cell, a captured Starfleet Captain. A plan of escape had been formulation in his mind for a while now. Problem, it was a two man job. Solution, Lorca was the right man for the job. The Captain had been quick on the uptake when Tyler made his move, taking the guards by surprise when they came for the daily beating. They'd fought their way out together and been picked up by Lorca's ship, _Discovery._ He had escaped from that place, from _her._

Yet a part of him was still in her grasp.

 _"_ _Did you really think you could leave me…"_

Her words when she found him trying to escape; her voice, even the memory of it, sent a shudder up his spine. He struggled to his feet, backing away from her. Conditioned by brutality to respond to her, he had to consciously resist the impulse to show her his compliance; disgusted by her, and disgusted with himself for what he'd been reduced to. In some ways it had crushed him more to submit to her, to let her do whatever she wanted with him, to smother his own will and give in to her whims. Everything she'd done with him, to him… He was not going back! Not when he had the chance, the faintest hope of escape. He tasted the possibility of freedom and he knew that he could not go back. He couldn't be her thing again. He would fight and if not escape then hopefully die fighting like a man rather than live like a pet subject to the whims of a cruel master. He couldn't take anymore, he couldn't trade away anymore of himself.

 _"…_ _After everything we've been through?"_

His rage had burned through his fear of her. All he'd been through was the degradation of being owned and used. He'd done what he needed to survive; he'd given himself to her over and over, but not anymore. He couldn't, wouldn't do it anymore. Fighting beside Lorca, he'd gotten a little bit of himself back, and that was the part held on to the rage and used it to block out the pain as he charged at her. Maybe she had not really expected him to attack her; maybe she did not want to shoot him and end up killing her favourite toy. Whatever the case, she did not go for her weapon. He always knew he could fight her off, but before now he hadn't dared try, not with knowing what punishment awaited him. Each blow was vengeance for every single time she'd ever touched him. He might die here in the bowels of the enemy ship, but he would take her with him. Maybe she was right and he couldn't leave her. They would both go into death together.

But he survived. Lorca came back for him and they made it out.

It had been seven months since the start of the war, the Battle of the Binary Stars where he lost his Captain and his freedom. Tyler had no measure of time inside that prison. When Lorca told him how long it had been, he didn't know what surprised him more: that his time in hell had been so short when to his mind it seemed to stretch out infinitely, or that he'd lasted so long.

 _"_ _No one survives Klingon prison for seven months."_ Lorca had been surprised to hear that he'd lasted so long, skeptically so.

Tyler remembered the distrustful accusation in the captain's tone when he said it. It was either have his only potential ally distrust him…or tell the truth, however much it sickened him to do so. " _The captain of this ship…she's taken a liking to me."_

Lorca had taken his meaning and, thank God, had the tact and the decency not to press it. Tyler thanked God for Dr. Culber too. The ship's doctor had been the only one to see the scars that his time in captivity had made; the marks of L'Rell's affection and cruelty, the claw and bite marks, the most recent of them still raw and open. The doctor's trained eye could see that these wounds…were not from conventional torture. His eyes are sympathetic, but mercifully he didn't ask and said nothing besides small talk meant to put a patient at ease as he treated the wounds, reknitting the skin and sealing over the scars, erasing them at least on the outside. Tyler was grateful for that – he did not want to look at himself and see the reminders of what he did to survive. He didn't want other people to look at him and see it, to know the many forms his torture took.

But it was over now. He was on a Federation ship in Federation space. He was safe, he was home. He was in his own bed, not hers. It was over – he kept telling himself that. He was safe now. He was out. He had nothing to fear from her. But fear didn't follow that kind of logic; it was still there lurking in the darkest parts of his mind that he'd forced it to, stalking like a dangerous animal, unseen but always there. Not only fear of what had happened to him, but fear of what _could_ have happened to him.

He knew that if he had not escaped the prison ship, his resistance would have eventually snapped, his mind would have given in. He would truly be hers. He would go to her, crawl if she wanted him to, beg for her touch and be grateful for it. He would have become her slave in mind just as much as in body. But that didn't happen. He survived and he got out. He was damaged, yes, he could admit that. But he was not broken.

 _"_ _Choose Your Pain."_

He'd chosen his pain, now he would just have to learn to live with it, and he would keep living his life.

That conviction however warred with another. He didn't know for sure if L'Rell survived the disrupter blast she taken during his and Lorca's escape, but his gut told him yes, she was still alive. And despite the improbability – however much he told himself that he was safe and that she couldn't get to him – he couldn't shake the certainty that she wasn't finished with him yet.

 _"_ _Did you really think you could leave me..?"_

XXXXX


End file.
